


Don’t Carry It All

by jeremystollemyheart



Category: The Wind in the Willows - Kenneth Grahame, The Wind in the Willows - Stiles/Drewe/Grahame
Genre: (except for brief mentions of deaths of minor characters who are dead or presumably dead in canon), Heavy Angst, Hurt/Comfort, I should not have done this to Rat, M/M, Sickfic, There will probably be more relationships added as the fic progresses, but I did, but it turns out okay I promise, drowning??, near death experience but no actual death
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-31
Updated: 2020-12-31
Packaged: 2021-03-11 05:00:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 10,393
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28459401
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jeremystollemyheart/pseuds/jeremystollemyheart
Summary: Based on the West End Musical.An accident leaves Mole very ill. On the Riverbank, caring for others is a community effort. Rat isn’t convinced that makes it any easier.
Relationships: Mole/Rat (Wind in the Willows), Rat & Mrs. Otter
Comments: 6
Kudos: 17





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You ever start writing a fic as a character study and then suddenly you are 8k in and you have to commit? That is this fic.
> 
> It’s inspired by a couple of things, but primarily The Willows in Winter by William Horwood, and the fact that I find the inciting incident a little, well, silly. I wanted to take a similar scene and turn it into something with actual angst payoff.
> 
> Credit is also due to the frankly surprising amount of other pastiches that have a preoccupation with putting Mole in harm’s way (I still haven’t fully recovered from one particular Cosgrove Hall episode) and I had to throw my own hat into the ring, I guess?
> 
> I now present the fic that has jokingly been called “The Technically Not Killing Mole Fic” on discord for a while. It’s heavy on angst and light on medical fact, and I hope you enjoy.

Summer had drifted into autumn, autumn into winter. The air became colder and the nights drew in. Rat felt himself winding down, ready to while away the better part of the cold months. Hours were starting to slip by dreamily and even he, who prided himself on keeping busy, found himself mostly ready to settle down and spend the days in his chair, fiddling away at lines of poetry until spring reared its head again. 

For Mole, the experience had not been  _ quite _ the same. He was still fascinated by winter aboveground, heralded by more than just singing field mice. He loved the world when it was glistening with frost and snow, and often enough he would ask Rat if he thought it would be  _ quite _ alright to take a walk along the riverbank alone. Although he didn’t  _ need _ permission, Mole was equal parts courage and fear, doled out sometimes seemingly at random, and occasionally Rat had to work to remember that he wasn’t used to exploring the world beyond his molehill alone. 

“’Course,” he told him, looking up from the paper he was scribbling out rhymes for ‘Badger’ on, “Only mind you go with caution. The riverbank is steep and slick in snow, and the river isn’t frozen through yet, so keep a weather eye out. Come back to me safe and sound, okay, Moley?” 

Mole always promised that he would, and then bundled up in his coat, his scarf, and his warmest hat and headed out. In Spring, summer, or even the early days of Autumn, Rat would have accompanied him. Just now though, the idle hours of winter called to him too loudly. Besides, Mole seemed to enjoy the reverie of being alone for a bit to take in the world. He left in the afternoon and returned home just before darkness fell. It always gave Rat something to look forward to, to see him trudging home in the early twilight, cold and tired, but happy and ready for his supper. 

And so it went for days uncounted (at least to Rat, for whom the hours and days moved fluidly just then). He would usually rouse himself to pull together something warm for them to eat when Mole got home, and then be there looking out the window for him to return just before darkness enveloped him. 

And then one evening he was late. First by minutes and streaks of daylight, and then by the better part of an hour. Rat grew worried, and then decided to be annoyed instead in order to make the worried feeling go away. It didn’t work. Their supper had grown lukewarm and then stone cold, and at last he couldn’t take it any longer and began bundling up to face the winter air. He was just beginning to wind his muffler when a pounding started, first at the door and then in his chest. Surely that was Mole, home late, unable to find the door handle in the dark, fumbling for it blindly with numb paws. Rat threw the door open and was shocked to find Portia Otter instead, leaning against the door frame to catch her breath. Her expression was stricken, and he felt a shudder start in his tail as one little twitch and end up in the tips of his ears as another. He hadn’t seen her look half so frantic since the run in with the Wild Wooders which had almost resulted in her being eaten. 

“Portia!” He exclaimed, motioning to usher her inside and out of the cold, “What’s the matter? Where’s your mum?” 

She shook her head, rejecting his invitation, and finally found her voice to say, “Mum sent me…you’re to come...the Riverbank… _ Mister Mole _ .” 

She didn’t add anything else, and she didn’t need to. The words “Mister Mole” had Rat out of his home like a shot, his muffler still unwound and streaming behind him as he ran. At first his strides carried him faster than Portia’s shorter legs could manage, but at last he slowed down, realizing he relied on her to guide him. She took the lead, and although she was clearly going as fast as she could, some impatient and panicked part of him wanted to urge her on. 

He had the foreign and rebellious thought that if Toad were here, he would certainly have something to bear them on faster, and Rat would not have complained even once (so long as Toad wasn’t the one in the driver’s seat of whatever the new thing was). 

All in all, their run was just over half a kilometre, and Rat barely felt it. He traversed the distance easily, fueled by adrenaline, with terror and impatience nipping at his heels. As they drew closer to the riverbank he could see some kind of fuss occurring and picked up speed, finally passing Portia. 

The fuss was Mrs. Otter, soaking wet and having just emerged from the river with an equally soaked second figure. Even at a distance, even limp and waterlogged and pale, Rat could recognize that other animal and his heart and stomach collided as one leapt upwards and the other sank like a stone. 

In an instant, he could envision the series of events: the unstable snow banks along the river, the river itself, ice cold and instantly numbing without being properly frozen. Mole, with his poor eyesight and his constant curiosity and his breathless start and stop fearlessness. He squeezed his eyes closed to shut out the image, and then saw it all the clearer in his mind.

“We’re coming, Mum!” Portia called ahead in warning, alerting her mother to their presence. Mrs. Otter looked up at them for one quick second as she worked to bring Mole back around. There was a set to her jaw that filled him with dread.

“You stay back now, Ratty,” she called out, her voice urgent and hoarse, “It’s nothing for you to see now.” 

She knew him well enough to know that her warning would go unheeded. He did not stop or even slow his pace, even when Portia caught up to him and tugged on the hem off his jacket to slow him down. 

When Rat reached them, he found himself instantly stumbling backwards in a moment of fear and panic at the stark white face and the wet eyelashes and the barely parted lips (tinged just slightly blue). 

“Mole! No, no no—Moley,” He muffled his exclamation with a paw to his mouth, so that the words came out half garbled as his knees threatened for one second to give way before Mrs. Otter stopped him with a stern word and look.

“You keep back now,” she warned again, not ceasing in her work, “We haven’t got the time for a fuss.”

So he did as he was told, taking a step back as she kept up her diligent ministrations. He was grateful to her. His own paws were trembling too much to assist.

There were a few tense, silent moments before Mole shuddered and gave a violent and ugly cough of river water, gasping for air as his eyelids fluttered. Rat felt his legs properly give way at last, and from behind someone (Portia, he remembered faintly), caught him well enough to let him down gently onto the snow. 

Mole continued to cough and gasp and shudder, curling in on himself into a miserable ball.

“There we are,” Mrs. Otter encouraged, rubbing a paw on his back in a circular motions, “Let’s have it all out, there’s a good lad.”

When at last he seemed to have cleared his airway and when he couldn’t cough anymore, he rolled onto his back and took gasping breaths, squinting up at her in the near dark before rasping, “Mrs. Otter? Is that you?” His glasses, Rat realized with a pang, were long gone, lost to the river. That, in combination with the traumatic experience and likely hypothermia, had left him disoriented and confused. 

“Aye,” she agreed soothingly, “But let’s have some quiet now, pet. Your Ratty’s here, and we’ll have you home in just a tick.”

Hearing his name spoken, Ratty felt suddenly real again and he jumped into action, stripping off his overcoat and muffler and handing them over to Mrs. Otter. Together, the two of them managed to get his things bundled around Mole. Portia offered her own muffler to the cause as well. 

“Ratty?” Mole slurred up at him when at last he lifted him off the ground.

“Shh,” he soothed, “It’s me, Moley. It’s Ratty. I’ve got you now, it’s all right.”

It wasn’t, of course. Not yet. They still had to get him home and warm. But he held Mole in his arms now, and that was something.

“My glasses…” Mole’s voice was raw from coughing, and his words were slurred, “Can’t s-see a thing, an inch--an inch in front of me, I can’t--”

“Shh,” he soothed again.

Mole didn’t settle down, although his babbling started to lose its form until it was “an inch in front of my rat, past the end of your tail,” and something Ratty didn’t quite catch about spring and picnics, but which made his chest ache and made him speed up his pace as much as he could manage without displacing Mole in his arms. He continued to offer soothing words and sounds in an attempt to calm him. As a last resort he began to mumble bits and bobs of poetry and songs under his breath. This had some better effect, as Mole seemed to finally settle down at the rhythmic sound of his voice, opting to silently squint up at him as though Ratty was the sun.

“Should I stay and look for the glasses, Mum?” Portia offered from somewhere behind. She sounded uncharacteristically solemn. Being kidnapped by Wild Wooders hadn’t dimmed her spark, but _this_ seemed to have put a dent in her normally cheerful demeanor. 

“We’ve got another pair at home,” he called over his shoulder without stopping.

“Come along then,” Mrs. Otter said, and then added, tiredly, but with great warmth and gratitude and just a hint of teasing in her voice “Good work, Portia. Now do you see what good you can manage when you  _ do as you’re told _ ?”

The journey back home was slower going, and Ratty spent most of it silently berating himself for letting Mole go out on his own. By the time he made it to his front door, his anger at himself had turned into a white hot ball in his chest, which he swallowed down as best he could, forcing himself to focus. He shouldered his way into his home (as it turned out, he had left his front door slightly ajar in his haste the first time around), deposited Mole in his usual arm chair, and moved to stoke the fire and add extra logs.

“Blankets are—are in the window seat, dry clothes in the first bedroom on the left, just down the corridor, top drawer,” he called to the room at large, trusting his orders would be heard, understood, and obeyed.

“Portia, put the kettle on,” Mrs. Otter ordered in her turn, as she followed Rat’s instructions, bustling through his home and returning with warm night clothes and an armful of blankets.

Mole was a rag doll as they peeled away layers of soaked clothing and redressed him in warm, dry things. Ratty repurposed one of the blankets into a towel in order to do the best he could at drying his soaked fur, and then bundled him up in the rest. When he was as warm and dry as it was possible for him to be under the circumstances, and still squinting around the room in a disoriented daze, Portia wordlessly brought over a mug of tea, steaming hot and honeyed.

“Thank you,” Ratty accepted the gift, sipped it once to make sure it wasn’t scalding, and helped it to Mole’s lips, “Here we are, have a drink for me, eh, Moley?”

Mole obeyed by rote, sipping at the hot beverage when it was offered. Mrs. Otter stoked the fire again, and for the first time Ratty truly caught sight of her and gasped, shaking his head in horror.

“Mrs. O, you’re soaked, you’ll catch your death. I haven’t got any ladies’ clothes, but--”

“We’ll have none of that now, Ratty,” she cut him off, “I’ll nick some of your things soon enough, but an otter never caught her death from a dip in the river, even in the winter. For now, let’s take care of such animals as aren’t meant to get wet.”

When she was satisfied with the state of the fire she came to their side and began fussing over Mole directly, checking his pulse and his temperature and looking very carefully into his eyes and asking him questions, ensuring his mind was unscrambling itself as the cold and the shock wore off. 

He could tell his name, and Rat’s, and hers. He could name Mrs. Otter’s daughter (although he slurred it in such a way that it came out sounding like “Portly”). He couldn’t give the proper date, but then again, Mole seldom could, usually lagging a day or so behind, or occasionally jumping ahead.

“There’s a good lad,” she praised for the second time that day, taking his paw and patting it. Finding it unsatisfactorily cold, she began to rub at it to warm him up, “Have you got any hot water bottles, Ratty?” she asked, and Rat, who had almost settled into a feeling of helplessness, jumped up when prompted and went to fetch them.

Once Mole was mostly thawed out, Mrs. Otter made good on her threat to steal some dry clothes, ordering Rat to change as well (he was still soaked from carrying Mole home, although he hadn’t noticed). When everyone was warm and dry she ordered Portia into the kitchen with her to remake some hot dinner for the quartet, leaving Ratty and Mole alone together for the first time that evening.

Suddenly, he found that he could not look at him, and could not think of anything to say. He cleared his throat over and over again, trying to begin, until Mole noticed and asked, “Are all right, Ratty? You sound as though you’re catching cold,” and he reached over to pat his arm.

He was not all right. He was exhausted and angry at himself. Hearing Mole, still recovering from his near-death experience, fussing over him made him feel positively ill.

“Me?” he demanded, his voice thick with emotion and dwindling adrenaline.

“You’re a little hoarse,” Mole’s own voice was almost unrecognizable, raw and rasping. No one mentioned it, but it made the lump in Rat’s throat swell.

“I’m so sorry, Moley.”

“Sorry?” Mole’s brow furrowed in concern and confusion, “What for?”

“I should never have let you go out on the riverbank alone in winter. You don’t know it like I do, and the river can be cruel, just as it can be kind. I let you go off on your own, and look what happened--almost happened,” he corrected at the last second. He lifted Mole’s paw and pressed a whiskery kiss onto his knuckles.

“And I promised you I would come safely home,” Mole reminded him, sounding still very weak but altogether too forgiving, “So perhaps I’m the one who should apologize,” he followed the offer up with a chuckle that turned into a short coughing fit. Ratty rubbed gentle circles on his back until it subsided.

“No, no, now Mole, it is my fault for letting you go off alone, and I shall never forget that.”

“Well,” he sighed and laid his head against the wing of his chair, his eyelids drooping closed for a moment, “I’m afraid I don’t remember much of the whole adventure, so you’ll have to remember it for me. Although I wish you wouldn’t remember it  _ quite _ like that. But I’m dead beat, so let’s not debate it anymore.”

“Of course,” Ratty said, although he would have liked very much to continue berating himself until Mole (or Mrs. Otter, or anyone he could find) properly blamed him for it and made him feel a little better. He added, “Shall I fetch your glasses?”

“Yes please. I’m as blind without them as a--well, as a mole.”

So Rat went and found the extra glasses, wrapped in a soft silk handkerchief and hidden in the back of a drawer. He tightened up a screw on one earpiece and brought them back to Mole, who accepted them gratefully, much obliged to see the world again.

Moments later, Mrs. Otter and Portia returned with a hot dinner, and they all sat around the fireplace to tuck in. Mole, usually a voracious eater, complimented the food as delicious but dozed off shortly after they coaxed him into eating a few bites. Mrs. Otter and Ratty exchanged glances over his head. 

“I’ll see Portia home,” Mrs. Otter said, between bites, “But I’ll come back and stay the night, in case I’m needed.”

“You don’t have to do that,” Mole said, rousing a little, “‘m feeling much better now that I’m warm.”

“And a good thing, too,” she agreed, giving his shoulder a squeeze, “But drowning is a nasty business, and so is  _ almost _ drowning, so let’s see you through the night, to be safe.”

The idea of a second scare so soon after the first made Ratty’s heart drop, but he worked to keep his voice steady as he said, “Thanks, Mrs. O. I hope it’s not too much trouble.”

“No trouble,” she assured him, even as Portia mewled that she didn’t want to go home, she wanted to stay here with all the excitement.

“You bite your tongue,” her mother chastised, “talking of excitement. You go home and be a good pup. I’ll not be gone long, just until morning, if all goes well.”

_ If _ , another heart crashing word. Rat tried to convince himself that Mrs. Otter’s concern was only out of an overabundance of caution, but it still made him feel fidgety and electric in all the worst ways.

After dinner and washing up, Mrs. Otter went to take Portia home. She promised to be back within the hour, and Ratty decided that it was well time to turn in for the night. Adrenaline now completely spent, he was so exhausted that his paws shook, and and he could only assume that Mole was as well. Her certainly looked peaked enough.

Mole squirmed as he scooped him up in his arms, saying, “I  _ believe _ I could walk as far as the bedroom, Ratty.”

“Well, you may keep on believing it, but tonight I will be your chariot,” he responded, keeping his tone purposefully rather grand. This felt different from how he had held Mole in his arms only a short time ago. This time they were both dry and warm. He touched his forehead to Mole’s for one brief moment and they both laughed softly, until it caused another brief coughing fit on the part of Mole, who leaned his head heavily against Ratty’s shoulder, and did not argue about being carried to bed or fussed over until he was comfortably propped up among an ocean of pillows and blankets. The fire in the fireplace was low, but it burned warm. No one could have asked for a cozier scene.

“Now you just have a good long rest, Moley, and you’ll feel right as rain come morning.”

He didn’t receive a response, but he didn’t mind. Mole was safe and sound beside him, and he would happily stay up all night ensuring that he stayed that way.

Which was his last thought before dropping off to sleep. It wasn’t intentional, he was simply too exhausted to keep his eyes open. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ...and then they woke up the next day and everything was fine. 
> 
> Actually, no, chapter 2 is forthcoming. 
> 
> As usual, you can find me on tumblr @jeremystollemyheart


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mrs. Otter contemplates both the past and the future, the situation escalates, and Rat makes a decision.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> At last, Chapter Two! I’ve been looking forward to posting this chapter, because maybe I just have a lot of thoughts about Mrs. Otter. 
> 
> I hope y’all enjoy and I would love to hear your thoughts!

Mrs. Otter and Portia took the walk home briskly, making record time. 

“Won’t Mister Mole be all right?” Portia questioned, when the two otters had trotted along in silence for a while, “He _seemed_ all right.” 

“Most likely he will,” Mrs. Otter responded, although she kept her tone purposefully non-committal. Overconfidence felt like a jinx at this point. 

“He was talking and everything,” her daughter added, hope in her voice. She adored Mole, and try as she might, she couldn’t hide her curiosity or concern.

“ _Yes_ ,” she drew the word out, long and cautious, “but it’s not always as easy as all that,” She saw no reason to frighten her, but she was also determined to be realistic.

“And that’s why you’re going back?”

“I’m going back for Ratty’s sake as much as for Mole’s,” she settled on that as an honest but noncommittal answer. The thought had taken up space in the back of her mind all evening, and she intended to honor it. 

She wasn’t sure if Portia remembered (they didn’t talk about such things), and she wasn’t going to ask it of her. But _she_ remembered, and that was more than enough.

Badger had been the one to bring the news, and Badger didn’t pay personal calls. When she saw him in her doorway, his cane in his hand and his gaze averted in distant, polite sorrow, she knew something was terribly wrong. 

When he had a seat and clumsily took her paw and told her that her husband would not be returning home, the sob that rose in her throat and tore through her still echoed in her ears on quiet nights. 

The following week became a blur of faces. Badger came by more than once to check in, and Toad kept sending flurries of butlers with gifts—including a memorial portrait he had commissioned of her husband, which she destroyed because she couldn’t bear to see it. Even the Wild Wooders came by to pay condolences. There was an unspoken understanding that death by outsiders was a particular kind of grief to which attention must be paid. 

After the first week, the visitors trickled off until only two remained. One was her own grief, threatening to consume her. The other was Ratty. 

He was younger then, still very green. She hadn’t known him well at the time, but that never seemed to matter to him. Every day he went out in his boat, and every day he appeared like clockwork on her doorstep with fish (already cleaned and gutted and wrapped in brown paper and twine) for her and her pups. After the first week she started trying to resist the gifts, saying that she wasn’t interested in charity. 

“It’s not charity,” he had assured her, “It’s just the neighborly thing to do. Someday you’ll return the favor, I’m sure.” 

So he brought the packages every day, without fail, until she and her children had rallied themselves. And until he was nearly a member of her family. “Half Otter on my mum's side,” he had joked to some thoroughly confused Riverbanker one day. He had never mentioned what had become of his own mother, although Mrs. Otter later learned that he was still deep in mourning for his father at the time that he had started appearing on their doorstep every day. 

He had promised she would find a way to repay the favor, eventually. What favor? Of caring for someone in their hour of need? Of grieving beside them? 

It was wrong to even invite that thought in. But it scratched and clawed and bit like a thing caught in a trap and trying to break free. There were such things as animal instincts, and they had a right to be listened to. 

She had told her husband to be extra cautious on the day that he had not returned. 

When they arrived at the door of their home she forced away her maudlin thoughts. Turning to her daughter, she instructed, “You’ll be in charge, but that’s _not_ an excuse to get into trouble. Straight to bed, look after your siblings, and _be good_.”

“Yes, Mum,” Portia rolled her eyes, but a mischievous grin played at the corners of her mouth. 

“And Portia?” She kept her tone so stern that her daughter straightened her posture automatically. 

“Yes, mum?” 

She reached out and gave an affectionate tug at her daughter’s ear, “I love you. And I’m very proud of you today.” 

Portia blushed a slightly embarrassed pink at being fussed over, and then sprang up on her toes to kiss her mother’s cheek before scampering inside and waving goodnight through the small window in the front door. 

“Straight to bed!” Mrs. Otter called once more. Whether or not her words would be acknowledged and obeyed was anyone’s guess. 

She turned and headed back towards Ratty’s house, taking the route slower this time. Passing the spot of the evening’s earlier disaster, she averted her gaze to the ground. The image of the snow, disturbed by footprints and by the shape of a slight frame being dragged from the river, was already lodged firmly in her mind. There was no need to see it again. 

The winter evening was stark, but the shiver that ran through her and made her pull Ratty’s borrowed coat tighter around herself was not from cold. She picked up the pace as she retraced their paw prints back to his riverside home. 

By the time she arrived, the house was already dark and silent; she found Ratty and Mole already asleep in their room. She knew the place well enough, even in the dark, to well know that there was a series of guest rooms just down the hall. Rather than taking one for herself, she heeded an instinctive need to stay close by. She tiptoed into the bedroom and curled up in the armchair Ratty kept there. It sat by a window, and in the daytime got perfect light for reading. Now, a full moon let in enough light that she could see without lighting a lamp. The chair was large enough and comfortable enough that she didn’t mind sleeping in it for one night. Her eyes did not slip closed until she saw two chests rising and falling in the half-light of the room. 

In the end, she didn’t sleep through the night. Within a handful of hours, the sound she had been dreading pricked her ears and jolted her awake. The rhythm of Mole’s breathing, which had seemed gentle enough before, had turned labored. 

The instinct that had demanded her wariness had proven correct. Nothing could have crushed her more. 

*

Rat awoke to two sounds, but it took him a long and disoriented moment to disentangle them. The first was someone coughing—painfully. The second was a bustling and muttering sound, with words that were spoken too low and quick to be understood. When he finally placed both noises, the scene coalesced before him with painful clarity, and he sat upright in a panic. 

Beside him, Mole was propped on his elbows, caught up in a coughing fit so severe that it made Rat hurt just to hear it. When the fit subsided, he collapsed onto his back, panting in noisy, shallow breaths. Rat reached out and brushed locks of lank fur out of the way, planting a paw onto Mole’s forehead, and then letting it travel down to cup his cheek. He had seen the fever in his flushed skin and disoriented eyes, but he was still surprised by just how warm to the touch he was. At the contact, Mole blinked up at him and mumbled his name in a hoarse and quavering voice. 

“Oh, Moley,” he leaned in closer and spoke the name as though he thought he would break it if he said it too loud. Of the two of them, his voice shook more. 

“Oh, Ratty, you’re awake,” Mrs. Otter sounded relieved, if distracted. She appeared in his periphery and set a bowl of water on the bedside table. In her paw she held several of his handkerchiefs, one of which she dipped into the bowl and wrung out deftly before folding it and placing it on Mole’s forehead. He shivered and made a move to pull the offending thing away, but she stopped him with a firm but gentle touch, leading his paw back down and arranging it at his side. 

Rat kept his eyes locked on the tableau. When he could bring himself to pull away, he looked to Mrs. Otter and murmured,“This is what you feared,” the words a numb statement rather than a question.

“Aye, I’m afraid so.”

“How long—“ he hesitated, but she answered his question without him having to voice it, shaking her head in kind reassurance that he hadn’t arrived late to the tragedy for a second time. 

“Not long. He woke me by his coughing not five minutes ago.” 

How could he have let his guard down, even for an instant? When it mattered so much? He put his head in his paws and said, “That isn’t—he was _fine_ ,” in feeble defense. He tried to put enough conviction behind that last word to make it true. Maybe he hadn’t been _fine_. But the brush with disaster had already seemed deceptively far away. 

“Water gets in the lungs. The turn happens fast, when it happens,” she didn’t even take the time to look at him during this explanation. She stripped extra blankets off the bed (Mole tended to burrow into them as if it was an instinct he couldn’t get rid of) until only one remained. Ratty watched, frozen and helpless. He followed her words, and he understood that she was right. Having grown up on the river, having had its rules drilled into him at an early age, he did not have the luxury of naïveté about the havoc the water could wreak on an animal’s body. But it was a rare thing and _not Mole, please, please, not him._

Once more irritated at being robbed of his warmth, Mole squirmed and gave a plaintive, disconsolate whimper before he took to coughing again, the sound of it starting small and growing. Without a thought, with practiced familiarity, Rat made a soothing sound and gathered him up, maneuvering him into a more upright position, propped up by pillows. Realizing what he had done, he froze for a second, and then drew back as if he had been burned. “Should I have?” He asked, requesting permission too late.

She nodded, finding his paw and giving it a reassuring squeeze. 

Mole’s coughing slowly ceased, and his breathing evened out a little. Rat’s heart leapt, a rush of hope filling his chest as he scrambled to say, “That helped. So—so what else?” 

Mrs. Otter sat down hard in the chair beside the bed and spoke in a tone that said she was choosing each word carefully, “Ratty,” she began, and then trailed off, and then tried again with another, “Ratty.” 

“Mrs. O?” The euphoria from seconds ago was slowly ebbing away, being replaced by a creeping dread. 

“I’m not sure you understand. I’m afraid there may not be much to do,” she confessed at last, rubbing a paw tiredly over her eyes, “besides wait and see.”

“What?” His tone was near deadly. 

“We can keep him comfortable,” she rushed to add, reaching out to take Mole’s paw, patting it almost absent-mindedly, “And try to bring his fever down. And maybe—“ she shrugged, but accompanied it with a threadbare smile, as tentatively optimistic as she seemed willing to be.

“Mrs. O, you’re frightening me.” 

She didn’t say anything for a long moment, just continued to pat Mole’s paw. At last she sighed, made teary eye contact and spoke, her tone as barely-controlled as he had ever heard it as she explained, “I wasn’t prepared, Ratty. You should be prepared.” 

Understanding washed over him, and he felt suddenly like _he_ was the one who had been submerged in icy river water. He sprang up from his spot on the bed and began to pace. This was not an answer he could be content with. He knew few animals kinder or more generous than Mrs. Otter, and he never doubted that she would stand by him as long as he needed her. But there was a fatalistic streak to her, a way of accepting the worst early on in order to stay strong. All things considered, he couldn’t blame her. He could not comprehend the loss she had experienced.

And he refused to comprehend it, or to accept her prognosis. After all, she had seemed in half-mourning for Portia at one point. And Portia had turned up alive. Now he held onto that fact like a lifeline. Grief was not always the only choice. It couldn’t be. 

“And how—“ his voice hitched, and he tried again, “And how if we appeal to Badger?”

“Mr. Badger,” she echoed, considering the proposal with the reverence it deserved. 

“It’s no disrespect to you, Mrs. O,” he added quickly, “But if anyone had an idea what to do, _wouldn’t_ it be Badger?”

He knew better than most that the majority of the Riverbankers and a solid handful of the Wild Wooders were perhaps over-reliant on Badger, as though he had the wisdom to solve every possible problem. It was a position that Badger himself did not seem comfortable occupying. Not because he lacked the knowledge, but because he preferred to be left to his own devices, and he could not do that while also playing some sort of Solomon. 

“Mole went to him when Toad was—himself.” 

“Maybe so,” she agreed at last, cautiously, “But this isn’t Toad and a flashy motorcar, this is—“

“Mole,” Rat finished, “And he fights harder than any animal I know. It is—“ he laughed, a little breathlessly, “It is infuriating, sometimes, how hard he fights. So if there is a chance—“

Hearing his name, Mole shifted and cried out in a weak voice for Ratty, who was at his side in an instant.

“I’m here, Moley, I’ve got you,” he promised, adjusting his pillows. Mrs. Otter took the opportunity to refresh the compress on his forehead, and in the meantime Rat pressed a kiss on Mole’s feverish brow, “And I’m going after Badger, so you, ah, you carry on fighting, eh?” He chuckled, “I suppose I always knew you would get me back into the Wild Wood one day,” he squeezed his paw, and felt another burst of hope and pride when Mole squeezed back, however feebly. 

“You’re right,” Mrs. Otter said, when he looked up and found her watching him. He had been ready for a debate, but instead she agreed, “Badger ought to know. For better or for worse. And I’d go with you if I could—“

That was an especially kind offer. She had confessed to him once that she couldn’t think of the Wild Wood anymore without imagining her child being captured within its shadows. He held up a paw to cut her off.

“No. You stay here. Who would I trust to take care of Mole besides you, Mrs. O?” With those words, he handed over the bedside vigil and hurried off to gather supplies for the trip. 

“Be safe, Ratty,” she called as he sped past the bedroom door, “It won’t help Mole if you try to play the hero and get yourself hurt, or worse.”

She had nothing to fear. He blamed himself far too much to consider himself the hero of this particular narrative. 

“I will,” he assured her without saying any of that out loud, “Though I pity the weasel or stoat who stands in my way tonight.”

He ducked back into the room and pulled a small knife from a drawer to arm himself. He briefly considered also carrying a cudgel, but at last decided against it. Travelling light was best under the circumstance. He did have the good sense to take a lantern with him. There was no time to waste looking for Badger’s house tonight, and no Mole to be good enough to trip over a boot scraper.

Feeling at last half prepared for his journey, Ratty kissed Mole’s cheek, embraced Mrs. Otter, who said, “Hurry back,” with tremendous gravity in her voice, and set out in the dark of night, towards the Wild Wood. 

By the time he reached the edge of the wood, his bravery had started to ebb away. Something rebellious and dreadful and cowardly within Rat told him to turn back. But he remembered the way that Mole had braved the Wild Wood on his own, in search of help for Toad. He had failed once to go there for Mole, he wasn’t going to make the same mistake twice. And when it came to it, in spite of his fears, he would have walked straight through the Wild Wood and into the Wide World, and straight past that if he had to, for him.

With that in his mind, and his hand on the hilt of his knife, he stepped into the trees and undergrowth, holding his lantern out for light and making his way as fast as he could.

There was the familiar sound in the trees, something half like voices, which Rat knew very well were the taunting whispers of Wild Wooders, mocking him and gossiping amongst themselves about what the water rat might be doing visiting them at such a late (or perhaps early) hour. He simply ignored them, whispering passwords and bywords into the darkness when he came to places where those things needed to be said.

Once, he thought he saw the Chief Weasel lounging against a tree, but Rat’s expression and posture must have proved so fierce in the moment that he only slipped away into the darkness without approaching.

But after that other sounds came up, whispers which took proper form in his ears and in his head: _The Water Rat? In the Wild Wood alone? And what of the Mole? Where is he? Unusual to see those two separate, unusual to see the Water Rat braving the woods alone. Strange tidings indeed._

Rat could not have said if those words came from whispering voices or his own conscience, still punishing him for letting Mole brave the River Bank alone.

At long last, in the darkest part of the night just before light began to creep into the sky, he saw the boot scraper and the doormat and the doorbell, and felt a pang of nostalgia mingling with a feeling of relief as he grabbed the bell pull and rang it with all his strength. When he didn’t receive a response, he assailed the door with both fists and took to shouting as well. 

“Badger! Badger let me in, it’s Rat--” the words “and Mole” had almost followed instinctively, and he bit his tongue to cut it off at the last second as he continued to shout until there was a sound of angry shuffling from inside--if shuffling could be angry--and some threats. He sagged against the door in relief, waiting for it to open.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I now have a WITW sideblog, so you can now find me on tumblr at jeremystollemyheart OR dontbecattyratty.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I realized while writing this chapter that I watched Once Upon a Forest too much as a child. If you know, you know. 
> 
> I’m sorry this chapter is so long in coming. The COVID vaccine wiped me out for two days so that was fun, and now I’m behind on everything. 
> 
> Also happy 10k and halfway-ish point to this fic that was supposed to be a 5k oneshot!
> 
> After this chapter, things will start to look up. As I have promised from the beginning, this isn’t going to be a story in which I kill a major character. 
> 
> With that said, I do talk more about past death in this chapter, which was not originally my intention. I have uh, a lot of thoughts about how some things end up being incredibly culturally significant on the Riverbank and death is one of those things, sorry!
> 
> Oh also, this chapter owes a not-insignificant amount to the Cosgrove Hall episode “Badger’s Remedy,” which is by far the most tonally bizarre episode of the series. 10/10 Highly recommend. 
> 
> Anyways enjoy! And thank you so much to those who have reviewed.

The cacophony that woke Badger from a deep, dreamless, and thoroughly satisfying sleep put him in no mood to answer it kindly. In truth, it put him in no mood to answer it at all. But the noisemaker was persistent: they rang, they knocked, they shouted muffled muffled words that he heard without being able to make out. Once he had waited long enough (eyes stubbornly clamped shut, mouth set in a firm and disapproving line) to ensure that the visitor was not some young weasel or stoat responding to a dare, he threw off his blankets and wrapped himself in a dressing gown before heading towards his front door, shouting toothless but obligatory threats all the way.

“I’ve warned you time and again, I will not take waking at odd hours, and the very next time— _Ratty_.”

He interrupted himself mid-sentence, and spoke his friend’s name _sotto voce_. He felt himself hit with such understanding and dread of what news might accompany Rat in the Wild Wood in the earliest hours of morning and alone, that he felt it in his bones.

Rat stared up at him, quaking, his eyes wide, “Badger, may I--”

“Come in, of course,” he ushered him inside before the question reached its conclusion, placing a heavy paw on his shoulder as he passed, pausing him to catch his eye and try to read something in his expression. What he found was unfocused terror. 

“Thank you,” Ratty tumbled in, not even shuddering at going underground. Once away from the cold air and colder eyes of the woods, his legs very nearly buckled. Badger caught him, pulled him upright, and led him to his sitting room, keeping a watchful eye on him. 

“What news have you got?” he asked, keeping his voice purposefully even, “I must say I almost hope you’ve come to tell me of some misadventure or another of Toad’s. Sit down, for Heaven’s Sake, Ratty. You look quite ready to drop,” he kindly refrained from mentioning that he had almost dropped only moments before. He led him to a seat in front of the fire, which he stoked to a warm red blaze. 

But Rat did not sit. He paced back and forth once or twice before Badger all but forced him into the chair and gave him a double pour of brandy to warm him up and calm his nerves. 

“Now,” he said, taking a seat across from him, his own brandy in paw. He took a sip, then requested, “Tell me why you’ve come here alone in the middle of the night?”

He knew. At the very least he could make a guess. But something in Ratty’s face told him that he needed to tell the story on his own, and in his time. 

“You see,” he began, took a deep breath, and then tried again, “It’s Mole.” 

“Yes,” Badger nodded, grimacing, “I must say I assumed as much when you arrived alone. I haven’t seen you on your own since before that first night you showed up on my doorstep, cold and tired and bleeding—in Mole’s case—to tell me about Toad’s foolishness with the motorcars. So tell me, what is our challenge this time? What does Mole face now?” 

“It was my fault, really,” Ratty began. He choked on his words after that, and then the damn burst and they tumbled out all too quickly. He told of how Mole never truly seemed to settle down in winter and how he, ever curious, had taken to walking along the riverbank in the afternoon, enjoying the wonder and the solitude of winter. He told of the evening meal going cold, and of Portia showing up at the door out of breath and afraid. He emphasized that Mrs. Otter had been the guardian angel who found Mole and went into the river after him, pulling him to shore and reviving him. 

“Mrs. Otter is indeed a fine animal,” Badger agreed, keeping his expression carefully neutral and providing no other commentary on the situation, especially refusing to validate the self-effacement, “And when did this misadventure take place?” 

“Around dinner time,” he spoke again of the cold meal that had marked Mole’s absence. 

“Then why come to me now?” seeing the way Rat shrank back, he realized his tone had sounded sharper than intended, more like a reprimand, and he added, gently, “I assume that the situation has grown more dire.”

“It was touch and go for a bit, but once we got him warm and dry and got a little hot food in him, he seemed a bit more himself, and I—I meant to stay up all night and keep an eye on him, Badger. I did. But I fell asleep all the same. I didn’t mean to. I didn’t want to. But I did, and I won’t deny it. And when I awoke—” his voice almost gave out, but he continued, “It was as though something had--”

Badger nodded. He could guess the rest, “His condition has deteriorated, then?”

“Water in the lungs, Mrs. O said. He went down fast.”

“Fever, disorientation, and a rattling in his chest,” he guessed, earning him a nod of agreement, “You have seen it before, have you not?” 

Ratty shrugged limply, “I’ve _heard_ ,” he corrected, “It’s certainly not ordinary,” he drained the remains of his snifter in one gulp and shuddered. 

Badger watched him, taking another sip of his own brandy before setting it aside. He stood and went to the fire, staring into it and warming his paws. Doing so gave him a few minutes to consider the situation without having to look Rat in the eye. He stayed there, unmoving, until the flames lost focus in front of him.

“So can you help?” It didn’t take long for Ratty to prod him for an answer.

“I have some knowledge,” he said, rather than answering outright, “It’s the wise thing to do, when you live alone in Woods. Unlike Toad, most animals do not hold with running off for a hospital stay when we are injured or ill. Still, it’s not entirely my area of expertise,” he warned.

“Mrs. O and I—we didn’t know where else to turn. And also we thought, well, you ought to—to _know_ ,” the last word was imbued with a tentative, solemn meaning that did not escape Badger’s notice. 

“I see,” he said at last. He still did not turn. The fire crackled and he continued to stare into it, trying to gather his thoughts as they careened about like Toad in one of his blasted motorcars. He had known, from the moment Rat had appeared at his door alone, that something had gone terribly wrong. The intuition did not give him any peace.

“Badger?” 

He did not move until he felt confident in doing so. Even then, instead of turning to make a statement, he went to his bookshelf and pulled out a couple of heavy volumes. He could feel Rat’s eyes on him every second as he took a seat and searched through the tomes. He didn’t have the time he would have liked to devote to the study, but he made use of the time he had, until his guest could not take the silence anymore, and cleared his throat, impatient. Badger let the second of the two books fall shut and stood. 

“There are things we can find along the way,” he said, as he crossed the room in three or four long strides. He shrugged on his long grey overcoat as he continued, “Certain herbs found in the wood, with medicinal properties. We will do what we can for Mole,” when he had finished doing up his buttons, he grabbed the large black bag that had accompanied them on their raid of Toad Hall and packed it with the two books he had referenced, as well as a couple of other titles. Last but not least, he carefully selected a handful of tinctures off another shelf and dropped them into the bag as well. 

“And let us not waste a moment.” 

He didn’t have to worry. Rat was already standing and rewinding his muffler as he said, “Thank you, Badger.” 

“Thank me?” He snorted, “My dear Ratty, what have you got to thank me for? Mole is a friend. It would be an unworthy animal indeed who didn’t do all they could for him.”  
  


*

In only a few minutes, they were ready to begin their journey out of the Wild Wood and towards Rat’s riverbank home. Already exhausted, beyond exhausted, he was especially grateful of someone to make the trip with. This time there were no dreadful whispers. Or at least, none Badger was not able to silence with as little as a word. The journey was kinder, although at certain points he stumbled in exhaustion and Badger had to all but physically pull him upright. 

“You’ll have a rest soon,” he ordered over his shoulder, his tone brooking no argument. That didn’t stop Rat from trying. 

“Me? I’m all right. Fit as a fiddle.” He could tell that the words weren’t convincing, by the way Badger stopped dead and turned to scrutinize him with a critical eye that made him shrink under his gaze. 

“You are no good to Mole half-dead,” his tone was stern, bordering on fierce, “And if you do not believe that he is in capable hands between Mrs. Otter and myself—“

“No, no, I do,” he promised, a little abashed, “And I’m grateful for you both. But Mole needs—“

“Mole needs you healthy and whole, in just the same condition that you need him,” Badger said, although his tone softened considerably. And then, as though the subject of safety had summoned their most flighty friend, he changed the subject so fast that it made Rat’s head spin.

“Has anyone sent this news to Toad?” 

“No,” Rat answered, his tone harsher than intended. Trying for a hint of diplomacy, he took a steadying breath and continued, “I think it’s as well for Toad to remain in the dark for the moment. There’s no help that he can provide without being—well. Without being Toad.” 

“And for that he deserves your secrecy?”

“For that _we_ deserve our privacy,” he snapped, then shoved his hands deep in the pockets of his coat and resumed walking. 

“Be cautious,” Badger warned at last, after a silence that felt long and terrible, “Or you may open a wound that will not heal easily.”

“All Toad’s wounds heal easily,” he corrected, “or have you forgotten the way he ‘mourned’ his father, your friend?” As soon as the words left his mouth, he knew they were the wrong ones by the way Badger stiffened, then picked up his pace and threatened to leave Rat behind for the first time since their journey had begun. He jogged to catch up, and said, “I’m sorry, Badger. Really, I am. I don’t know what came over me.” 

“Fear,” Badger’s pace slowed, and his tone indicated that he understood the response, even if he didn’t quite forgive it, “The same fear that would overcome any animal under the circumstances.

“But if you cannot consider Toad’s feelings, then I ask you to consider Mole’s.” 

“I always consider Mole’s feelings.”

“Then consider them. And send for Toad.” 

That was enough to make him clamp his mouth shut. After that the journey proceeded in relative silence. He fell into contemplation. Had he really been considering only his own comfort by avoiding Toad? Mole cared for the amphibian, sometimes against all odds. He saw the best in him and tried to bring it out, even when that meant accidentally encouraging him further into some harebrained scheme. If Toad was capable of giving Mole the same kind of encouraging kindness (which some part of him doubted, but _if_ he was), then he would grit his teeth and bear the strain, even if it interfered with his own private fear and grief. 

Badger left him alone with these thoughts, only calling a halt when he needed to venture off the path after a certain plant that he saw or smelled. Twice, he corrected their course when Rat, nearly sleepwalking, almost broke free of the path. “Fit as a fiddle,” he rumbled, echoing his earlier words in a gently derisive tone, “But rather out of tune.”

Rat got a second wind when they emerged from the Wild Wood. At first he quickened his pace and took the lead, but then slowed as they neared home, a sense of dread at what he might find there settling somewhere deep within him. When they reached his front door, he rocked to a halt and found he could not bring himself to open it. Badger didn’t mention his trepidation, just moved him aside gently and entered, calling out, “Mrs. Otter?” and then, for the sake of politeness, “Mole?”’

It wasn’t until Rat heard Mrs. Otter’s voice, tired, but not tearful, say, “Aye, Badger, I’m glad of you. Come and see,” that he felt he could move his paws again. 

“On our way, madam.”

Badger did not bother removing his coat after ducking inside the house. He followed the sound of Mrs. Otter’s voice, perfectly focused on his objective. Rat held back, glad to be forgotten. He hung his own coat on the rack and then slipped into the bedroom. Badger and Mrs. Otter had convened in a corner, where they spoke in low tones. Rat would have eavesdropped, if he hadn’t been afraid of what he might hear. When he was sure that neither of them were paying him any mind, he ghosted past them and made straight to Mole’s side. He refreshed the compress on his forehead, wringing it out in the bowl on the nightstand. Before replacing it, he leaned forward to place a quick kiss on his feverish brow. It was the same tactic from earlier, and its familiarity seemed to have a rousing effect. 

“Ratty?” 

“Yes Moley,” he adjusted the compress, “It’s me, it’s Ratty. I went to fetch Badger. Went into the Wild Wood for him myself, even. But I’m back again, and I’ve brought him along. And with Badger here, you know everything will turn out all right,” he added, perhaps a little boldly, and certainly with more confidence than he felt. 

“‘S nice,” Mole murmured, managing the ghost of a smile. His eyes slipped closed, and then drew back open with no small amount of struggle. 

Even that barely-there smile filled Ratty with the same nearly incautious optimism as Mole’s tiny squeeze of his paw had earlier. 

“How are you feeling?” he ventured to ask, straightening out the blanket. 

“‘Hurts.”

His heart lodged itself in his throat and had to be wrangled back down before he could speak, “Where? Where does it hurt?”

Mole shifted and rubbed a paw fitfully against his chest. He tried to breathe deep, but it came out shallow and rattling, and Rat could hear pain in it, even before it set him coughing again.

At the sound, both Mrs. Otter and Badger whirled away from their conversation and hurried to the bedside. Mrs. Otter adjusted the pillows and propped Mole up again. “Let’s not talk too much just now,” she directed the instruction towards Ratty. Normally, he would have ducked his head in embarrassment at the gentle reprimand. Now he barely heard it. 

“He says he hurts.” 

“I dare say he does, poor thing,” she agreed, “He’s in a pretty bad way right now.” 

Badger, who had leaned close to listen to his breathing, raised up. “I can give him something that should help with the pain,” he offered, “and something to help the both of you rest.” 

It took Rat a startled moment to realize he was the other half of the “both” in question. When it occurred to him at last, he crossed his arms and dug in his heels. “I’m all right, I got my second wind, I—“

Badger looked down upon him fiercely, but it was Mrs. Otter who put an arm around his shoulders and began to maneuver him away from the bed, with a gentle but firm, “Come along now.”

“What about you, Mrs. O?” He dodged out of her grip, “You must be just as tired.”

“I haven’t spent half the night wandering around the Wild Wood,” she explained with the practiced patience of one who was used to putting petulant children to bed. But he wasn’t an otter pup, and he didn’t budge. 

“No, but you pulled him from the river. I won’t rest unless you do as well.”

This wasn’t a kind gesture. It was a stubborn last resort, and he could see from the way she put her hands on her hips and glared at him that she was thoroughly aware of that. Mrs. Otter had a way of glaring that still gave off the impression that she was staring down her nose at him, even when she had to look up. 

“Ratty is correct,” Badger’s interjection surprised both of them. For a moment, he felt the pride of victory, until he continued, “Both of you ought to rest while you can.”

“Now Badger, I don’t think—“ This time it was Mrs. Otter’s turn to protest.

“I will awaken you at the slightest concern,” he promised her, “and until then, I will sit with Mole while the two of you sleep. Now, forward march.” He whirled them both towards the door and herded them out of the room. 

For the second time, Rat found his kitchen overtaken by another animal. Soon the house filled with bitter, medicinal smells. They reminded him of the past, of homemade tonics his father had made him drink down during his own childhood illnesses. He had always hated them, and the memory made him feel oddly peaky, even years later. 

“Perhaps he’s right,” Mrs. Otter spoke from beside him. They both sat in armchairs by fire, awaiting whatever Badger planned on giving them. 

“Hmm?”

“Perhaps we’re both due a rest.” 

“Perhaps,” he lied unenthusiastically. 

“Here we are,” Badger held three steaming mugs steady as he came into the parlor. He handed one each to Rat and Mrs. Otter, and held on to the third, and by far the most strongly scented one, for Mole. 

Rat sniffed his own mug experimentally. It smelled of chamomile, and other herbs that he did not recognize as readily. 

“Now off to bed, the both of you,” Badger pointed down the hallway, indicating the first two guest bedrooms. Sighing, he pulled himself wearily out of his chair and obeyed. He and Mrs. Otter took the first and second rooms, respectively. He had the fleeting thought that he wished he could have changed the linens before inviting a guest to make use of the room.

What was now the first guest room had at one time been his childhood bedroom, but now it felt foreign to him. The mattress was firmer than his own, the decor cheerful, but unfamiliar. There was a certain unavoidable dankness to all the seldom used rooms in a riverbank home, even when they were kept perfectly warm and dry. He shivered and climbed into bed. Although he did make a good and honest effort to go to sleep, he abandoned the steaming mug on the table by the bed, undrunk. 

*

To Badger’s surprise, the quietude that enveloped the room overwhelmed him almost instantly. The medicinal brew he had given Mole, one spoonful at a time, had at least granted him peaceful sleep. In the ensuing silence he found himself half-wishing that he wasn’t the only creature still awake. Typically, he preferred quiet to idle chatter, but sitting in silence with Mole felt wrong. He was a rare animal with whom Badger never minded conversing.

“You make me feel almost young,” he had confessed to him once, in a rare moment of candor. He would never have said as much to his two companions, but Mole was an underground animal, steady and sturdy. 

“We keep you young? Rat, Toad, and I?”

“Not Toad,” he had corrected with a wry grin, “Toad keeps me very, _very_ old.”

“And speaking of Toad,” he said aloud, although no one had spoken, “I’ll call on him later, if Ratty will allow it.”

“He will,” said a voice from the doorway. He jumped slightly, but didn’t have to turn to see who it was. 

“Ratty. I thought you were asleep.”

“I tried. Couldn’t get settled.”

“The tea wasn’t helpful?” 

Ratty padded into the room and took a seat on the empty side of the bed where he normally slept, “I didn’t touch it,” he confessed, with an embarrassed half-grimace and apologetic bob of his head, “Made me feel like a kid again. And not in a good way.” 

Badger did not mention that his refusal was, in its own way, petulantly childish.

“I thought I might stay in here,” he added, “In a chair or—or anywhere, really. The floor. And I promise I’ll sleep, just—not in there,” his tail twitched in an involuntary shiver.

“Take the other half of the bed, if you like,” Badger gave in, “It won’t do him any harm. I thought you might rest easier on your own, but it seems you’re as steadfast, loyal, and _stubborn_ as your—“ he cut himself off abruptly, realizing what he had been on the verge of saying. Too late, it seemed. He saw Ratty brace for impact at the same time that his eyes softened. 

“He’s been on your mind as well, then.”

_Oh._

The elder Mister Rat’s death had been a slow, arduous thing, equally full of long and silent watches, and a house filled helpful, bustling animals sending his son off to bed with something hot to drink, nagging him to rest. Badger should have guessed Ratty would have made the connection as easily as he did himself. 

“It has not escaped me that I’ve held vigil by this bedside before.”

“Right, well,” Rat shook his head as though to shake off the grim thought, “It’s not going to be that way this time,” the words were a statement, with no doubt in them. Badger found he could not decide whether the confidence was commendable or worrisome. He watched in stony silence as Rat fussed over blankets for the hundredth time, held Mole’s paws and then positioned them just so at his sides, and finally said, “He’s sleeping more peacefully, at least.”

“And why do you suppose that is?” Badger quizzed, raising a sardonic eyebrow. 

“Probably because he drank his tea,” Rat guessed. He grinned wryly, the first genuine smile Badger had seen on his face since he had appeared at his door in the earliest hours of the morning. 

“If I brew more, will you drink it?”

“Cross my heart,” Ratty had evidently decided that obedience was best now that he had gotten his way. 

So Badger heaved himself out of the chair and went faithfully back to the kitchen.

In the end, Ratty’s promise turned out to be a lie, albeit an accidental one. By the time Badger returned, steaming mug in paw, he was already fast asleep, one of his paws protectively over one of Mole’s. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay I need you all to know that my headcanon is that all the Wild Wooders go to Badger for medical advice if they really need it. They’ve all done it at some point. Yes, this includes Chief Weasel. They kind of hate relying on him for help, but on the other hand, Badger has never turned them away.
> 
> This is not relevant to this fic, I just felt like you all deserved to know it. As a treat. 
> 
> Anyways! Find me on tumblr @dontbecattyratty!


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